by Mark Ward
The 1980-81 season was a mixed one for me. With a glut of midfield players at the club and first-teamers given priority when dropping down to play in the reserves, I was in and out of the second XI. Andy King left in September 1980 to join QPR in a £400,000 deal but returned to Everton, via West Bromwich Albion, two years later. Before I knew it, the season was over and it was D-Day – the moment I’d learn whether I would be offered another pro contract or be released. All the other young lads at the club were telling me not to worry, so convinced were they that Everton would give me another year, or maybe even two.
Dad saw me off to training, telling me not to worry but I was nervous. I sat quietly in the dressing room at Bellefield, waiting for the call summoning me to the manager’s office. It was like waiting to be sentenced – or reprieved – by a judge. My football future was in one man’s hands. After all my hard work in trying to make the grade, it all came down to his judgement.
Lee had hardly spoken a word to me in the previous two years – he showed no interest in the younger players. He was dour in both demeanour and words. As I nervously stepped inside his office, he told me to take a seat. I’ll remember his next words for as long as I live. He came straight to the point: ‘Mark, we believe you’re never going to be big enough, strong enough or quick enough to establish yourself at the highest level. There is no doubting your ability but we have decided to let you go.’
He didn’t even make eye contact as he delivered his damning verdict. A voice inside me kept saying: ‘Tell him he’s making the wrong decision. Tell him you’re getting stronger and that you will become quicker in time.’
But no words left my lips. I was stunned, in a state of deep shock.
I left Lee’s office and headed for the stairs, where I was met by my team-mates, Steve McMahon, Kevin Richardson, Gary Stevens, Dean Kelly and Brian Borrows, who were clearly upset for me. They were full of support and commiserations but, as I choked back the tears, I just wanted to get home.
Waiting for the No.75 bus on Eaton Road, I felt emotionally shattered. I paid my fare, made my way upstairs and sat on the empty top deck, where I cried. I was angry and frustrated with myself. I should have told Gordon Lee he was making a terrible mistake and that I’d prove him wrong.
My thoughts then turned to Dad, who was still struggling badly to come to terms with Mum having walked out on him. Now that his son had been dumped by his beloved Everton, it was another major body blow for him to handle. By the time I got home I felt more in control of my emotions. I stepped into the living room, where Dad looked up from his Daily Mirror. He knew my fate from the sadness written all over my face. And as he grabbed hold of me, I broke down in his arms.
He did his best to try and reassure me that Everton had made a big mistake in letting me go, and that he knew I was good enough, but his words were of no comfort to me at the time. We just sat together for a couple of hours drinking tea. He made me promise him one thing: not to give up on my dream of becoming a professional footballer. ‘Mark, you will get stronger and quicker,’ he reassured me. ‘By the time you’re 21 you’ll have these two ingredients to make you a better player. With your skill and the extra power you gain, you’ll become a footballer of some quality.’
I gathered myself together to reassure Dad that I was more determined than ever to prove Everton wrong.
A couple of hours later that afternoon we heard some amazing news on the radio.
Lee had been sacked.
Dad and I both looked at each other. We couldn’t believe that the man who had turned my world upside down just a few hours earlier, had now also been given the boot by Everton.
The sacking of the colourless Lee – appointed as Billy Bingham’s successor in January 1977 – had been on the cards for a good while. After a good start, the former Newcastle United manager had seen his Toffees team finish 19th and 15th in successive seasons before the Goodison board decided his time was up.
Little did the football world know then that Lee’s replacement, Howard Kendall, was about to revive Everton’s glory days and become the greatest manager in the club’s history.
Even though I was shown the door at Goodison in May 1981, Howard was to play a major part in my football development. In the short term, he threw me a lifeline I was determined to grab. Although the season had officially finished, there were still a couple of friendlies to be played. He wanted to see me play even though the decision had already been made to let me go, so I was given one half of a testimonial match against Halifax Town at The Shay in which to try and impress him. For Howard to offer me hope in this way, I was going to have to play the best 45 minutes ever. The pressure was enormous.
Alongside me in the team that day were seasoned senior pros including Bob Latchford, Asa Hartford and Mick Lyons. End-ofseason testimonials are never easy games to play in – players don’t want to risk injury and most are already thinking of lazing on a beach while knocking back the San Miguels.
For the first time nerves got the better of me. I was trying too hard and although I had some success against the Halifax full-back and managed to provide a few decent crosses, I sat in the dressing room afterwards knowing that I hadn’t done enough to excite Howard. On the team bus journey back to Liverpool, Bob Latchford and one or two other senior pros tried to lift my spirits by saying they thought I’d done enough to impress the new boss.
It wasn’t to be, though. My dream had been shattered. Lee’s sacking had come too late for me and I felt devastated that I was no longer an Everton player.
But Howard Kendall never forgot me.
Ironically, when he signed me from Manchester City 10 years later and brought me back to Goodison, I was amazed when he mentioned that nondescript game at Halifax. He had questioned the judgement of Lee and his coaches in their decision to release me. For Howard to remember a low-key testimonial match from a decade earlier, it just showed his fantastic knowledge of the game and the attention to detail he always brought to management.
Showing me the Goodison exit door would ultimately prove a costly decision for Everton, although, realistically, I accept that I was still some way off playing for the first team in that summer of ’81. Leaving the club I loved hurt very badly at the time but it was to be the making of me – as a player and as a man. I’d embark on a 10-year rollercoaster ride, a journey of blood, sweat and tears to get back to my club.
5. THE KING AND I
AFTER being released by Everton, the 1981-82 season quickly became a reality check for me. For a start, I didn’t even have a club to play for as the new campaign loomed. Everton had promised to arrange practice matches against lower league teams, to give me the chance to impress other clubs, but nothing materialised.
The only contact I had with anyone at Goodison was from Geoff Nulty, one of the first team coaching staff and a former senior player who lived near me in Prescot. He arrived at the house one day in the summer to reassure my dad and I that he believed I had what it took to become successful. It was good to hear and gave me some much-needed encouragement at a time when I really needed it.
Then, out of the blue, a telegram arrived at the house – the first we’d ever received. It was addressed to me and I was excited as I opened it, praying for good news and the offer of a trial by a league club.
The telegram read: ‘Can you contact Tony Murphy, who is a player at Northwich Victoria FC, so he can bring you along for a trial at Drill Field, Northwich, to play against Bolton Wanderers’. Tony’s address was printed at the bottom of the message.
At first, I mistakenly thought it said ‘Norwich’, so I immediately assumed the telegram had been sent from Norwich City (who had just dropped from the first to the second division). I must admit, I felt deflated when I realised it was Northwich, a non-league club in Cheshire. Dad told me to go and knock at Tony Murphy’s house, which was just a short distance from us, to find out all I could about the Alliance Premier League side.
I hadn’t heard of Tony before our first meeting
but he is still a good friend of mine to this day. We always reminisce about the first time we clapped eyes on each other. I knocked on his front door and was greeted by the most unlikely looking footballer you could imagine. My first impression of Tony, who had a big, round face and legs like tree trunks, was that he was too fat to play football! He always says that when he first saw me, he thought I was too small and looked like a young teenager.
He invited me in, I handed him the telegram I’d received from the club’s new manager, Lammie Robertson, and he read it to himself. Tony was friendly enough and told me not to be late on Saturday because he would take me to Northwich with him.
He chauffeured me to my first trial game in his Hillman Imp and it was the first time I realised how close Northwich was to Liverpool. I took an instant liking to Tony, who was 25 at the time and in his third stint with Vics after spells with Runcorn and Bangor City. He never shut up all the way there and was good entertainment.
Before leaving home that morning, Dad advised me to treat the game as a training session and, no matter what happened, I should not sign for Northwich under any circumstances.
On arrival at Drill Field I was disappointed to be told that I’d only be one of the substitutes. I watched the first half and was surprised at the quality of the Northwich lads, who were holding their own against the strong full-time pros of Bolton Wanderers. Tony Murphy played at left-back and he had a great left peg and tackled anything that moved. As expected, he was slow but he read the game amazingly well. Not many got past him – he’d take out anyone who dared to try.
There was a crowd watching and I was itching to get on and show everyone what I could do. Scotsman Lammie Robertson, who had a brief spell at Leicester City and a 400-game career with various lower league clubs, told me to warm up with 20 minutes to go. He told me to go on and enjoy myself. And I certainly did.
I felt no pressure at all and was instantly picking the ball up and flying past the opposition. We were a goal down but within minutes I made the equaliser with a dribble and a neat cross. My two previous full seasons spent training every day at Everton had seen me attain a very high standard of fitness. I scored the winner with five minutes to go and didn’t want the game to finish.
As I walked off the pitch at the final whistle, Tony put his arm round me and said: ‘Don’t sign for us, son, you’re too good’. I took his kind comments with a pinch of salt but I knew I’d done well.
I got changed and enjoyed the buzz of the dressing room, where it soon became obvious that Tony was the joker in the pack. I was asked to go and see the manager in his office before I left. Lammie came straight to the point: ‘Mark, you have done really well today,’ he told me. ‘We would like to sign you on a two-year contract.’
He went on to tell me how easy it was to drift away from football and become forgotten. Northwich could offer me £45 per week and a platform to bounce back into the Football League. I was getting £22 per week on the dole by this time and whatever possessed me to reach out for the pen and sign, I’ll never know to this day. But I’m glad I did.
Lammie looked as pleased as punch at getting my signature. It was only when Tony and I were nearing Liverpool, on our way home from the trial game, that I remembered Dad’s last words before I left the house that morning.
The Watchmaker was the nearest pub to Tony’s house and it also happened to be Dad’s local. Tony asked if I fancied a shandy as I told him my father would be in what I called his ‘second home’. He was keen to meet him, so we made our way to the bar in The Watchmaker and, sure enough, there was Dad, standing in his favourite place … drunk.
I introduced him to my new team-mate and Tony immediately went into detail about how well I’d played and told my father that he had a good footballer for a son. I was praying that Tony wasn’t going to let slip the fact that I’d actually signed for Northwich that day. I wanted to tell Dad myself later, when he’d sobered up, as I knew he’d kick off on me for ignoring his advice.
I’d just taken a sip of shandy when Tony told Dad: ‘I told him not to sign for us, he’s too good.’
‘Have you signed for Northwich?’ Dad snarled.
‘Yes,’ I replied, waiting for the inevitable eruption.
He lurched forward but I was already poised to make my escape. Dad chased me out of the bar into the street, shouting obscenities and telling me I’d ruined my career, while Tony made his diplomatic exit through the other door. Having seen Billy Ward in one of his infamous tempers, he was wise to beat a hasty retreat. Dad was drinking too much by this time. He still hadn’t got over losing Mum – he never would – and so he found salvation in the bottom of a beer glass. He could become very aggressive and unpredictable through drink.
The next day, however, he eventually came around to the fact that I’d lowered my sights to non-league level. Little did either of us know then that Northwich Victoria were going to be an excellent club to propel me back into full-time football. They were a great, little non-league outfit with a proud history. There was a warmth and friendliness running right through the club and I felt instantly at home there. The people embraced me as the Greens’ youngest player and they looked after me in every way.
Our team was a good, interesting mixture. The Vics players all had full-time jobs, so the wages they earned at Northwich was their secondary income. Kenny Jones, the captain who had been with them for 10 years, was a brickie.
His sidekick and centre-half partner was Jeff Forshaw, who worked as a joiner. They were a formidable pair of Scousers.
We had a school teacher in Philly Wilson, a building society manager in Dave Fretwell and just about every other job description you could think of. Tony Murphy worked at the Ford motor factory in Halewood.
One thing I quickly noticed was their unbelievable team spirit. It was a team that bonded on and off the pitch – in spectacular fashion. After matches, it was all about drinking and shagging! The motto of the team was: ‘Win or lose, on the booze’. And didn’t we just.
Some of the lads were on good wages and used their football earnings to fund a very enjoyable and active social life. After every game, home and away, the lads went out together in Northwich and they introduced me to drinking in a big way. We had some long away trips – to Weymouth, Enfield and other far-flung fixtures in the south – and I was regularly pissed by the time I got off the team bus back at Drill Field on a Saturday night.
Then we would continue drinking in local haunts – the Martin Kamp nightclub and the famous Cock Inn pub. Even though Northwich Victoria were only non-leaguers, the players still attracted their share of local groupies. The same women hung around us every week. And the lads would share them, especially two of the more desirable ones, named Pat and Debbie. I was gobsmacked by how flirtatious these women were. They just wanted a good shagging – and the lads never liked to disappoint them!
Kenny Jones, our inspirational skipper and defensive rock, was having an affair with a local woman known to us as ‘Louby Lou’. She would be waiting for him religiously after every game. Some of the messages she left on Kenny’s car windscreen were outrageous.
There was always fun and games after matches and there were some legendary party animals, namely strikers Colin Chesters and Paul Reid plus goalkeeper Dave Ryan.
But the team didn’t make a good start to the 1981-82 season and poor Lammie Robertson was sacked after just six matches. I was injured in a game against Barnet – who were managed by Barry Fry – just before his dismissal.
It was definitely more competitive at this level of football compared to what I’d been used to in the youth and reserve teams at Everton. I was up against strong, experienced footballers each week and getting clobbered regularly. But then I always did enjoy the physical side of the game.
The lads tried to look after me on the pitch. The nasty injury I suffered against Barnet resulted from an horrendous tackle. Their cocky midfielder had been mouthing off all through the game, telling me what he was going to do to me.
And, true to his word, he topped me and I thought he’d broken my leg. I was in agony and as I waited to be attended to by the physio, I heard Kenny Jones arguing with Barnet’s hatchet man. I wanted my revenge but the blood was pumping from my leg wound and I was forced to leave the field.
Kenny told the beefy Cockney that he was a coward. The Barnet player replied: ‘Fuck off, old man.’ I heard Kenny add: ‘I’ll show you how old I am in the bar afterwards …’
I thought nothing of this spat but these careless words from the mouthy Barnet player would soon backfire on him. I was bandaged up and limped into the players’ lounge after the game to have a beer. Tony Murphy whispered in my ear. ‘Watch what Kenny does when their players come in.’
I was intrigued. The Barnet players arrived in the bar to tuck into the customary sandwiches and a quick beer before their journey back to the smoke. The cocky bastard who had nearly finished my career was laughing and full of himself as he got the beers in. To my delight, Kenny walked up to him and calmly said: ‘I’m the old man … remember me?’
The Barnet player had a nervous look of surprise on his face and the room suddenly went deathly quiet. ‘Look mate,’ the trembling Cockney blabbered. ‘The game’s over now, let’s forget what’s been said.’
Kenny wouldn’t let it go, though. He called him a cheat and a coward, and offered him outside. It made great viewing for me. This dirty bastard had tried to break my leg – no doubt about it – and could easily have finished my career there and then. My captain had put him on the spot and he was now cowering in front of his own team-mates. His voice started to stutter and you could see the tears welling up in his eyes as the colour drained from his face.
